City Paper music critic Ballard Lesemann and I sat under the oaks in the Cistern last night and listened to Stefano Battaglia and his band woo the assembled crowd into a Sunday evening stupor with a blend of mellow, exotic sounds ranging from the vaguely Mediterranean to almost-silent soundscapes. Couples cuddled in the grass out in the darkness, and the night air seemed drugged. If either of us were gay (or even bi-curious) it would have been damned romantic. As it was, we glugged down Budweisers and left a seat between us. Ah, machismo. Here’s a sampling of what the concert sounded like from where we were sitting. (Don’t mind the voices in the background; that’s us feeling the need every so often to talk about sports and pornography.)


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